


To Ring So Empty, or The Gradual Descent of Larsa Ferrinas Solidor in Ten Easy Steps

by midnightdiddle (gooseberry)



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Archadian Empire, F/M, Gen, House Solidor Feels, Inheritance, Politically Motivated Sex, Politics, Regicide, Royalty, Underage Sex, coup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-20
Updated: 2007-04-20
Packaged: 2019-01-31 04:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12674643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseberry/pseuds/midnightdiddle
Summary: A child is born in the spring, and it is a son, as all Solidor children are sons. Magiks run long, and some magiks are eternal, and so there shall never be a daughter of the House. Larsa presents the child to the Senate, and gives the child to Archadia, and Archadia, heavy in grief and power, bows to her emperor.--In which Larsa, as the last member of House Solidor, tries to be the child-emperor a grieving Archadia needs.It's Larsa-centric, which a heavy smattering of Larsa/Penelo, Larsa/Mistress, Larsa/Archadia, Larsa/World, and vague Larsa/Gabranth 'cause I can't say no. Game spoilers, post-game spoilers. Basically, spoilers.





	To Ring So Empty, or The Gradual Descent of Larsa Ferrinas Solidor in Ten Easy Steps

Larsa sleeps with his first woman at fourteen.

Archadia is teetering on the edge, like it has been for the past half-dozen years. House Solidor has been diminished to one, and the Senate is more or less in shambles. The idea that the Emperor lacks an heir is an idea that weighs heavily on the mind of many, and lightly on the minds of even more.

The woman, for she is a woman, no longer a girl, is several years older than Larsa, and has a round face. Her hair is lighter than his, an almost mottled brown, and her eyes are blue. She calls him "Majesty," and he calls her "Lady," and there aren't many more words.

She is well-to-do, a daughter of one of the more influential Houses. He doesn't pretend that this means anything, because it doesn't, and she doesn't complain. To carry a child of an emperor, even if the child is to be a bastard, is an honor most women would fight tooth and nail to claim, and so she is, if not happy, at least honored.

"Shall I kiss you?" she asks, and she's kneeling on the bed, naked. Her hands rest on her thighs, and her breasts are plump, and Larsa looks no where but her face.

"No, thank you," Larsa says, always so polite, and he is unbuttoning his cuffs. "I don't care to be kissed. I see no enjoyment in it. It is--" He struggles with a button, and with a word. "--wet," he finally concludes, and the button slides free.

It is sex, for that is what the Senate wants. An heir, they say, is needed far more than a virgin emperor, and so an heir they shall have. It is quick, and a little messy, for it is a child who would be a man, and a woman who would be a child, and in the end it means little more than a swelling belly and an appeased nation.

**ix**

"You were to be my brother's wife, were you not?" Larsa asks at age fifteen. He is sitting in her rooms, watching her embroider. It is a fete, pretending that they are master and mistress, but it is one that Larsa does willingly.

"I was," she says, and the hoop settles over her stomach.

"And do you wish for that still?" Larsa asks, and he watches her needle, flickering in the candlelight.

"I know not, Your Majesty," she says. Her slippered feet peek from heavy skirts as she stands, awkward, and Larsa reaches out, steadies her arm. "I knew little of Your Majesty's brother, and he knew little of me."

"Your age?" Larsa asks, for he has little to give her, save questions, and she has little to give him, save answers.

"I shall be twenty in the autumn." Her fingers are pale, and she pours the tea carefully, lips pursed.

"You," Larsa says, "shall have a palace in the autumn. Shall it be made of ice, or of leaves?"

Her smile is small, near as small as her laugh, and Larsa sits with her in the dark, waiting for the new year.

A child is born in the spring, and it is a son, as all Solidor children are sons. Magiks run long, and some magiks are eternal, and so there shall never be a daughter of the House. Larsa presents the child to the Senate, and gives the child to Archadia, and Archadia, heavy in grief and power, bows to her emperor.

**viii**

At sixteen, Larsa sleeps with a friend. Penelo has grown, and she is ever the dancer she was as a girl. Bells chime at her ankles, and chains tinkle at her hips, and her hair is the color of the southern wheat.

Larsa gives her his kiss, and his hand, and leads her to a balcony where roses tumble over the marble benches.

"I have nothing," Larsa says, "that is mine to give. I can give you neither child, nor crown. I cannot give you a ring, nor a palace."

Penelo's laughter is lower than the bells upon her feet, and her skin is warm beneath his fingers. "I wouldn't ask for that, even if I knew I could have it, Larsa," she says, and Larsa can't remember the last time he heard his own name.

"Then what," he asks, and he feels desperate, like time is flying from his hands, "would you have of me?"

"A smile," she says, "or a laugh. It's been long," and her silks are dragging amongst the petals, "since I've heard you laugh."

"And how shall I laugh for you?" He catches the chains about her hips, the strands of gold and silver, and he is certain that if he pulled, the chains would tighten and snap.

"In my bed, I think," Penelo says, and her feet chime as she leads him from the rose bushes.

The summer passes quickly, and then Penelo is gone, costumes and jewelry scattered in her wake. Larsa finds himself back in his mistress's rooms, and dark hair is nothing like blonde, but when Larsa closes his eyes, he can't see anything but darkness.

**vii**

A second son is born in Larsa's seventeenth year. Larsa presents this child, as he did the previous, and then he gives the child to the nurseries. The nurses coo and cluck and coddle, steady women of dull dresses and white aprons. Larsa visits, from time to time, to see his two sons, but he has little time for many things.

Archadia is, as always, growing, and the weight is, as always, heavy on Larsa's shoulders. He watches the seasons pass outside his windows, and he gathers his judges about him, using their hands, and his, to twist the threads of the empire.

It is like a tapestry, woven in black, dyed in red, and at times Larsa wishes he could spread it over the maptable, to see where, and how, and why, so that he might somehow save this Archadia from herself.

A giant, Larsa learns, is quick to die, crumpling inwards upon itself.

Archadia, Larsa learns, is much the same.

**vi**

"Would you," Larsa asks Gabranth, "die for me?"

"Aye," Gabranth says, and Larsa dips his pen into the inkwell.

"And would Basch," he asks, "die for me?"

The answer is long in coming, and Larsa signs the papers in the silence.

"At eighteen," Larsa says, and Gabranth is ever silent as his side, "I feel tired. I feel that Archadia is ever poisoning me."

"My Lord," Gabranth begins, and Larsa pours sealing wax, purple on the parchment.

"A city in the east has been attacked," Larsa says. "Should you be Gabranth, I would that you take to the east, and with you, as many men as you see fit. If you are Basch, I would that you take to the skies, and with you, as many friends as you might have."

"Which," Larsa asks, and he is near tall enough to look into Gabranth's helm, "shall you be?"

**v**

Archadia goes to war when Larsa is nineteen. Near all of Ivalice is in an uproar, and destruction threatens every half-step. It is in Archades, surrounded by war-advisors, that Penelo finds him.

“I thought,” she says accusingly, and the paints are smeared upon her arms, “that you would rather have peace.”

Larsa is tired, but he is always tired now, and he can’t stand to Penelo, as he never has been able to. “I had no choice,” he says, turning towards the window. “Archadia has grown weak in the eyes of her enemies. Should I turn a blind eye, the threats shall turn real, and my people will die for it.”

“And so you’ll march to war?” Penelo’s voice is near-broken. “You’ll march off to war-beats, and say that it was best.”

“I am seen as a child, Penelo.” Larsa watches the reflection of Penelo in the window, sunlight blinding out her face. “They will take any advantage seen, and they shall twist it.”

“Then sue for peace. You said it before, that you would sue for peace, and—“

“What shall I sue upon? Decimated cities? Burnt villages? Perhaps the men, slaughtered, or the women, raped? Would you rather I sue for peace upon the children cut from their mothers’ wombs?” It is easy to close out Penelo’s reflection, and easier still to close out her voice. “I will destroy those that would threaten Archadia. I’ve my people, and they shall be protected at all costs.”

Penelo’s hands are cold in his, and he opens his eyes when she rests her face against his. “Then I’ll pray,” Penelo says, lips close to Larsa’s ear, “that you’ll be safe.”

“Take to the far skies,” Larsa says when she kisses his cheek. “In war, not even sky-pirates are untouchable.”

**iv**

“They call me a god-child,” Larsa says to Gabranth. He is thinner, he knows, and when he looks into a mirror he can see his collarbones, sharp beneath his shirts. His hands look strange, long and brittle, and he curls them before his face. He has become old at twenty, and feels the ages creeping on.

“They say,” Larsa continues, “that I am like a god. I wonder, am I so? And shall I rain down justice and punishment?”

“Perhaps,” Gabranth says, “but even a god must eat, or shall he survive upon breath alone?”

“Breath,” Larsa says, “and moonlight.” He reaches out, and the mist slips between his fingers. “I’ve no appetite for this, Gabranth. I grow tired of these games, and were I a god, perhaps I would devour it all, for lack of wanting.”

“And what would you rather, Lord?”

“I would to Archades.” Larsa curls his fingers, and the mist feels heavy and cold on his skin. “Banners furled and trumpets silenced, I would to my home.”

“Gabranth,” Larsa says, and he can scarce feel his heart, “I am tired.”

**iii**

Larsa loses his Archadia at age twenty-one.

Penelo touches him, dancer’s fingertips on his skin, and he cannot touch her back, for his world is a mesh of light and sound, and to move would send him crashing through the sheets of glass.

“I,” Larsa says, for he must make things right for Penelo, because he swore himself to her many years before, “am Archadia’s. I cannot,” and there are no words, because Archadia has dragged all his words from him.

“They call you a god,” Penelo says, and her hands are wrapped around his wrists, anchoring him to breath and heartbeats and skin. “When they speak of the Emperor, they speak of a god.”

“And the people grow to hate the gods. Do they hate me yet?” Larsa tugs, and he feels Penelo’s nails catch his skin. He imagines the feel of blood, slipping around his wrists, and wonders if it is real. “Do they fear me yet?”

“They fear for you,” Penelo says, and her mouth is gentle enough that Larsa can near believe her lies, sugar-sweet and poison-soft.

**ii**

Larsa’s hair is shorn from the fever that wracked his body the year before. His power is shorn from the same fever, and the Senate grows ever more powerful. Larsa is kept within the upper halls of the palace, and his robes scatter the dust upon the floors. He hears, at times, the sharp voices of power, echoing down his empty halls, but he is mostly alone.

His Judges lurk beyond the tapestries, creakings of metal that follow Larsa from room to room, and Larsa takes to talking to them, for there are few others for Larsa to speak to. He watches Archades wake and sleep, wake and sleep, and he sleeps himself, pressed against the windowpanes.

“My Lord,” Gabranth says, “there are those who would see you in power once more. They gather under your name, and they would fight for you.”

“And shall they win?” Larsa asks, and the world looks far smaller than it had when he was a child.

“They would not find defeat an easy taste to bear, My Lord,” Gabranth says. He moves nearer to Larsa, and Larsa turns further towards the window, for the sight of armor no longer sets him at ease.

“I hope, then,” Larsa says as Gabranth removes his helm, steps close enough to breath upon Larsa’s neck, “that they never have to taste it.”

Gabranth’s face is both Basch’s and Noah’s, and Larsa watches it in the reflections the year he turns twenty-two. The time passes slowly, as it does for all those caught in gilt cages, and Larsa wonders if this is what eternity shall always be.

It is not, he decides, an easy task, to be a god.

**i**

Larsa is killed at twenty-three, during a rebellion led by his followers.

The Senate Chambers are slick with blood, and there are screams ringing in Larsa’s ears. He’s fallen twice yet, and he’s certain he’ll fall once more, but there is little time for such matters, for Archadia is nearly in his hands once again. He swings his blade, feels sweat dampen his shirt, and slips in the blood.

It is a sword that catches him. His mouth opens in an ‘o,’ but he cannot speak, for there’s a peculiar little something caught in his throat. It doesn’t hurt as much as he’s sure it should, and so he lets fall his own blade, reaching for his stomach, and the sword that is cutting him through. It is then he falls again, knees buckling beneath him.

The floor is warm beneath him, soaking through his clothes, and there are cold gauntlets wrapping about his waist.

Gabranth’s voice is raspy in his ear.

“My Lord,” Gabranth says, and Larsa has never liked the Judge’s helms, not when he was a child, and not now, when he wants to look at Gabranth, see whether Gabranth is wearing Noah’s face, or Basch’s. “My Lord--”

“My sons?” Larsa asks, for suddenly it all seems terribly important, maybe more so than Archadia, even though Archadia should be everything, for Archadia always was everything.

“Safe, My Lord,” Gabranth’s voice says, and his metaled fingers are pressing against Larsa’s fingers and Larsa’s stomach, covered in Larsa’s blood. “Taken by sky-pirates to Rozarria.”

“Ah,” Larsa says, and there is another thing stuck in his throat, and when he coughs it clear it is red, bitter on his tongue. Larsa wonders if this is the taste Gabranth spoke of, of defeat. “Penelo, then, and--”

He’s not quite sure what he’s speaking of, nor whom he’s speaking to, and there is a weight growing on his chest, weighing him down. He catches Gabranth’s fingers, holds them tight, and he’s not quite sure how to breathe, for everything simple is no longer so simple.

“Gabranth?” he asks, for he’s scared, and this Gabranth isn’t the Gabranth of old. That Gabranth left him, for most everyone’s left him, and Larsa hates the way the screams in the palace ring so empty.

“I’m here, My Lord,” Gabranth’s helm says, and the screams seem a little quieter, a little further away. Larsa’s fingers can’t hold onto Gabranth’s, and Gabranth’s horns shift in Larsa’s eyes, growing and twisting. Larsa can’t bear to watch, and so he closes his eyes, tries to catch a breath.

“I’ve lost her,” Larsa says, but Archadia isn’t his to lose, never has been, because Archadia has always been more than Larsa could ever hold onto, god or not. “I’ve lost,” and in the end the loss rings empty in Larsa’s soul.

Larsa never was a happy boy.


End file.
